It began, as all grievances do, with a misplaced pebble. A simple, unassuming pebble, yet it lodged itself within Bartholomew’s primary gripping surface. The sensation was... intolerable. He attempted a subtle shift of his weight, a delicate readjustment, but the pebble remained. A low, guttural rumble, barely audible, escaped his throat. He considered a direct confrontation with the pebble, a forceful expulsion, but the potential for further abrasion – the very thought was agonizing. He observed, with a growing sense of simmering resentment, the slow, deliberate movements of the dust motes in the sunbeam. Such nonchalance! Such oblivious disregard for the profound disturbance within him.
The sunbeam, it must be said, was particularly irritating. Its warmth, normally a source of minor comfort, now felt like a mocking pressure. Bartholomew attempted an elaborate series of postural adjustments - a slow, deliberate rotation, a brief elevation of one limb, a frantic twitch of his tail – all in a futile effort to shift the offending light. He began to notice patterns in the movements of the iridescent beetles that frequented the lichen-covered wall. They seemed to be deliberately ignoring his distress. The thought occurred to him – a truly horrifying concept – that he was, perhaps, the anomaly. Perhaps *he* was the disruption in the otherwise harmonious flow of the world.
The rumble had escalated. It was no longer a mere rumble; it was a sustained, vibrating groan, punctuated by sharp, clicking sounds. Bartholomew attempted to articulate the source of his frustration – a series of complex, geometric patterns formed by his tongue – but the words refused to materialize. The frustration manifested physically; his limbs trembled, his skin bristled, and a faint, shimmering aura of irritation surrounded him. He glared, with an intensity that would have startled a predator. The lichen, he decided, was conspiring against him.
A moment of profound introspection. Bartholomew considered the nature of irritation itself. Was it a fundamental aspect of existence? Was he, perhaps, destined to perpetually be plagued by minor annoyances? The thought was almost unbearable. He began to question the purpose of his existence, the validity of his grip, the very nature of the pebble. He wondered if other geckos experienced similar struggles. He suspected, with a chilling certainty, that they did not. They were simply… content. The horror of this realization was almost too much to bear. He emitted a particularly loud, frustrated click.
Bartholomew attempted a deep, centering breath. He focused on the sensation of the pebble against his skin, trying to understand it, to accept it. He even offered a small, grudging compliment to the pebble – “You are… persistent.” The words felt hollow, but they were uttered nonetheless. He was, he realized, tiring. The constant tension was exhausting. He settled, for the moment, into a state of wary observation, punctuated by occasional, controlled clicks. The battle, he suspected, was far from over.